


A Poke in the Eye With a Sharp Stick

by Sherlaufeyson



Category: Beyond the Fringe RPF, British Actor RPF, British Comedy RPF, The Goodies RPF
Genre: David Frost Mockery, First Kiss, M/M, Pining, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 10:53:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17559005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlaufeyson/pseuds/Sherlaufeyson
Summary: April 1976. While Bill Oddie is pining over Tim Brooke-Taylor at the Amnesty International charity concert, he unexpectedly gets some help from Peter Cook. Graeme Garden is there as well.





	A Poke in the Eye With a Sharp Stick

**Author's Note:**

> A Poke in the Eye With a Sharp Stick was the name given to a series of charity concerts for Amnesty International performed at Her Majesty's Theatre in London's West End in April 1976.
> 
> Highlights of the shows were edited into a film called 'Pleasure at Her Majesties'.
> 
> This was a precursor to the series of Secret Policeman's Ball concerts for Amnesty International.
> 
> \-------------
> 
> Even I don't believe this story has a snowball's chance in hell of happening. But it's nice to dream.

Peter Cook was nursing a glass of wine, enjoying his view of the performance from a rarely used area stage left, nicely secluded from view of the audience, and the bulk of the performers milling about off-stage. 

The wing was furnished with thick black curtains, and flanked by sturdy stage backdrops, which divided the sections. 

Fortune had seen fit to equip the area with a bottle of champagne and an assortment of glasses, and he’d found no reason to find another spot.

“He’s rather good, isn’t he?” 

Peter turned his head from watching the performers on stage to the man standing next to him, who had just spoken.

“Which one is that?” he asked.

Bill Oddie looked up at him, surprised. He hadn’t expected his quiet burst of audible rumination to be addressed.

“Tim.” He clarified, bemused as to why the answer wasn’t obvious in the first place.

Peter smiled to himself, nodding thoughtfully. “Yes, he is very good.”

Bill bristled slightly at the tone in Peter’s voice. Just a tinge too knowing, too considered. The creeping, jealous feeling wasn’t helped by the fact that he knew the hero worship Tim bestowed on this particular individual.

Looking back at Tim on stage, he heard a gentle chuckle from behind.

“Look, what’s so funny?” he said, disgruntled. No matter how well he regarded, respected, and revered Peter Cook, he wasn’t going to be laughed at.

“We are watching a comedy.” Peter turned to him, and continuing, he put on a fair imitation of a Lancastrian accent, “Oh, I forgot what you northern buggers are like. ‘Y’won’t make me laff…’.”

Bill smiled in spite of himself. Perhaps he was being a bit difficult. “I didn’t mean…” he trailed off, desperate not to dig himself further into a hole.

“None taken.” Peter flashed a smile at him and Bill suddenly understood how he had the world falling over itself to land at his feet. He felt a flush rising to his cheeks and turned to watch the rest of the skit. 

In the end it was Peter who restarted their almost-conversation. “So I take it you and he are…,” this was Peter’s turn to trail off the sentence to avoid causing offence.

Bill barked out a slightly bitter laugh, “No.”

“Why not?” Peter asked. Simple question, really. Peter’s body language was inviting an answer. Casually leaning against one of the backdrops, swirling the contents of a glass of white wine in one hand, while taking a drag from the cigarette loosely dangling from the fingers of the other. His eyes were sparkling from behind the smoke with the promise of gossip. The man was incorrigible.

Bill found himself talking. Laying out fifteen years of confusion, hope, and resignation. Identifying in excruciating detail exactly what it was about their long term friendship and working relationship that categorically precluded any liaison taking place there.

Peter remained silent through it all. Nodding and shaking his head appropriately, making the occasional noise of acknowledgement when it was needed.

Bill managed to talk himself in a circle, coming around to Peter’s point of view. 

Why not? 

A roar from the crowd filtered through the thick curtains and around the stage exits. Peter gave him an encouraging smile before taking a step sideways, getting out of the path of the performers leaving the stage.

Bill saw Tim approaching him from the stage. His eyes were already lit up from the thrill of a well-performed skit and audience adoration, but they seemed to brighten even further as he came out from underneath the stage lighting and saw Bill.

Before he knew what he was doing, Bill had taken hold of Tim and was crushing him against the backdrop, capturing his lips in a kiss and deepening it the second Tim had brought his arms up to pull him closer. 

Peter was silently enjoying the spectacle when he heard a gentle, but pointed cough coming from a couple of feet away. He dragged his eyes away from the frankly adorable scene, and saw the third party of their little group giving him a quizzical look.

“I take it you’re responsible?” Graeme asked him.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly take the credit. Smoke?” Peter offered him a cigarette from the packet in his breast pocket.

“Ta.” Graeme took one and accepted a light.

Bill and Tim were still at it. Tim’s hands were entangled in Bill’s mane of hair, and Bill’s body language implied he had no intention of moving any time soon.

Half a cigarette later, Graeme spoke again. “You are responsible, you know?” he said in a quiet voice of wonder, “For all of this.”

Peter hummed noncommittally, part-way engrossed in the actions of the two very eager comedians experiencing what must have been a very long awaited kiss. “How so?”

“Beyond the Fringe. Without it, none of us would be here today.” Graeme flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette and took a glance sideways at Peter, in some half-hearted attempt at sizing the man up.

“Oh I wouldn’t say that. ‘Stuff What Dreams Are Made Of’ would have made it on it’s own.” Peter looked down and was pleased to see a disbelieving smile tugging at the corner of Graeme’s mouth.

“You saw it?”

“More than once. You were very good. But my god, so young! What were you twenty-two, twenty-three?”

“Twenty one.” Graeme said softly. Sometimes it was barely believable. Right place, right time. He had been very young. 

“The baby of the group.” Peter was back to watching Tim and Bill. Bill’s frame was more relaxed as he leaned into Tim, and there was some definite rolling motion happening with his hips. Graeme took another drag of his cigarette.

“Well, I’ve never been called that before. I’m not sure why that is, could be the acne scars, the fuzzy chops, the hairline, or lack thereof…”

“You are the youngest though? Those two were in Cambridge Circus.” Peter asked, seeming genuinely interested in their chronology.

“You certainly know your history. Yes, Bill’s seven months older, and Tim is two years older than him.” Catching how potentially silly an age comparison in months was, he attempted a justification. “Seven months can be a long time when you’re that young.”

“And aren’t they acting their ages.” Peter giggled and looked accusingly at his empty glass of wine, refilling it from the bottle on his table and offering a glass to Graeme. Graeme declined.

“I was the baby of Beyond the Fringe.” Peter volunteered. “It puts a pressure on you that others can’t know. I feel like we get disproportionately judged for silliness. Youth and beauty is a curse, my child.”

Graeme grumbled in agreement. They both returned to watching the elder two-thirds of the Goodies. Bill’s mouth had descended on Tim’s neck and Tim’s eyes were closed. Beads of sweat at his hairline were reflecting the rear stage lights. Every so often, he’d open his mouth slightly in a gasp. It seemed that however inexperienced Bill had claimed to be in these matters, some of the skillset he’d acquired with women was transferrable. 

Peter’s voice jolted Graeme from his reverie, “I think the main thing you have me to blame for is David Frost. If we hadn’t gone to America…” Peter took an angry sip of wine.

“You mustn’t blame yourself for him. He’d made up his mind to conquer the world at prep school.” Graeme reassured him.

“I believe it. The bubonic plagiarist.”

Graeme chuckled darkly. “But he’s not here now.”

“Very true. Here’s to `An Evening Without David Frost`.” Peter handed him a glass of wine and they clinked glasses, toasting his absence.

“They look quite good together, don’t they?” Graeme remarked, having gotten over the initial shock of seeing his colleagues engaging in tonsil hockey in what amounted to a public forum. 

“Not jealous, then?” Peter asked. If he’d been in Graeme’s position back during Fringe, and Bennett or Miller had tried that with Dudley, well, one of them would not now be alive to tell the tale. 

Graeme diverted his eyes up to Peter’s, taking a considering look. “Not at all. Not really my type.”

A look of recognition passed over Peter’s face, mingled with what looked like a smidgen of disappointment. “Ah, you’re one of those.” Graeme couldn’t quite make out what gesture he’d made, but assumed it was one implying ‘unwavering heterosexuality.’

“Not exactly.” Graeme said, cautiously. “I tend to like my men a little taller…” At this, Peter raised an eyebrow. “… and with a little more experience.” Graeme smirked up at Peter.

The light coming from Peter’s grin could have blinded a lesser man at thirty paces. “Well, why on Earth didn’t you say something sooner?”

At that, Peter discarded their wine glasses and stubbed out his cigarette. Placing his hands at Graeme’s hips, he firmly pulled him in by his belt lugs. Graeme let out an involuntary groan as he felt Peter firm against him and himself being levered backwards as Peter’s mouth descended on him for a kiss.

Graeme flung his arms around Peter, wrapping them around his surprisingly strong shoulders. Peter moved one hand to support his head, holding it in place as he received what was absolutely the most incredible kiss of his life. The other hand, Peter placed at the small of his back, keeping them pressed together from hips to chest. 

A few moments of this back-bending, soul-shattering kiss, where Graeme felt like he was drowning in a passion that had been conjured up from somewhere deep and primal, and Peter righted their positions so Graeme could support his own weight. 

Somehow he managed to do this without breaking the kiss at all. Graeme tangled a hand in his hair, scratching his head, and he felt Peter’s groan through his chest. Encouraged, he ran his fingernails down Peter’s back and the man shuddered against him. Graeme trapped Peter’s thigh between his legs and pressed forward, insistently, repeatedly. He could feel Peter, hard through the layers of trousers and shirt, against his stomach. 

He barely registered movement coming off the stage towards them. It wasn’t until two sets of footfalls had halted right next to him, and he heard a distinctive soft Leeds accent exasperatedly beseech them, “For Heaven’s sake, could you all please act your ages?” that he realised to whom those footfalls must belong.

As Alan Bennett and Dr Jonathan Miller left them in peace, he felt Peter chuckle against his mouth. He took a quick sideways look and saw that neither Tim nor Bill had paid any mind to those particular elder statesmen of comedy. 

If it wasn’t bothering them, and it wasn’t bothering Peter, it certainly wasn’t bothering him. 

His last thought before Peter attacked his mouth with renewed vigour was that he really hoped they would do more of these charity concerts in the future.


End file.
